You are baking cookies
and I am imagining myself
sitting on a stool by a wall
watching you measure and mix
like you understand the science
of wet and dry ingredients.
I pretend to sneak a nip of vanilla
and you pretend to swat my hand
with a long-handled wooden spoon.
You roll the dough on wax paper
and I scratch your itchy nose
when your hands are white with flour.
You cut and ice the bells
and candy canes and Santas
while I form a little Venus
between my palms, same as clay.
After you set the timer
and put them in to bake,
I tell you how much at this moment
you look like Botticelli’s Primavera,
and you do, tall and creamy
with coppery blonde hair.
I position your hands just so,
right palm up, left hand
clutching your kitchen apron,
your expression serene
and slightly bemused like a goddess,
your feet in their dancer position.
Hold that pose while I sketch you,
quick, before the timer goes off.